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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25765756">Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/impravidus/pseuds/impravidus'>impravidus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Character Death, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Presumed Dead, Wakes &amp; Funerals, Whump</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:49:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,067</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25765756</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/impravidus/pseuds/impravidus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Life moved on, but Harley Keener did not.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harley Keener &amp; Peter Parker, Harley Keener/Peter Parker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>90</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/madasazar/gifts">madasazar</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Harley wrapped his arms around Peter’s waist, trailing soft, feather-light kisses down his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter chuckled, the vibration rumbling against Harley’s stomach that was pressed flush against his back. “If you keep this up, these eggs are never getting on the skillet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, what will I ever do without your rubbery, burnt eggs?” Harley mumbled into his ear, sucking on the skin behind his earlobe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter scoffed. “Excuse me! My eggs are fantastic, thank you very much. The char adds flavor and character.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you say, darlin’,” Harley said, kissing his bare shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter flipped around, his nose touching Harley’s as his arm snaked to his hips. “Hi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” Harley whispered back, voice low. He met Peter half way, humming in delight at the soft, cold lips. He nibbled on his bottom lip, slipping his tongue into his mouth, swiping against his lip on the way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter moaned and pushed Harley, his back hitting the counter, Peter grinding against him languidly and unrushed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley pulled away. “As much as I’d like to continue this, you’ve gotta get to that big fancy science convention, and I’ve gotta get some fuel in me if I’m gonna survive my classes today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, because you don’t appreciate my cooking, you’re making the eggs now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You say that like it ain’t a good thing,” Harley teased.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter shoved his arm and headed to the fridge. “Orange juice?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes please,” Harley replied. “Dippy or scrambled?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could go for dippy. I’ll get the toast?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds good!” Harley said, cracking two eggs into the pan. “Rye for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He says even though we only have rye bread,” Peter retorted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey! You went to the grocery store yesterday. You could’ve gotten white.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When do I </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>get white bread?” Peter asked with a snort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could’ve started!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> the one who says rye is better for gut health. Why would I suddenly start getting the ‘empty black hole food that is white bread?’ Your words, not mine.” He examined his face. “Do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> me to get white bread?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley didn’t respond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Babe, if you wanted me to start getting white bread, you could’ve just asked.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It just makes me feel so </span>
  <em>
    <span>guilty.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Twenty-two years living with superfoods courtesy of Macy Keener, and suddenly you have food problems that can battle your Catholic guilt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter huffed a soft laugh. “Well, I can’t help with that, but I can pick up some white bread next time I go to the store.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, what’s your day lookin’ like?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter groaned. “A lot. Like, a lot a lot. I’m the closing keynote speaker, and I’m also doing a panel and running a workshop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley whistled. “That is a lot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They gotta cram it all in for the one day, which means I’m gonna be run ragged for hours upon end.” He sighed. “At least they’ll have free drinks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t drink,” Harley pointed out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’ll have shirley temples,” Peter replied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “You’re gonna do fantastic, sugar. I know you will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, honey,” Peter mumbled into his shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The toaster dinged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And there’s the toast. You better get started on those eggs before it gets cold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a hefty breakfast, and an unproductive time in their bedroom with a few stolen kisses before they finally got into their suits for the day, Harley’s a pretentious tweed suit with a matching vest and Peter a sleek maroon suit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They shared one last kiss, Peter grabbing his briefcase and Harley his satchel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Remember to pay the phone bill,” Peter said as they rode down the elevator of their apartment building. “Verizon sent me a reminder this morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll get right on it when I get home,” Harley said, squeezing his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When I get home, I am shutting down. Full on, disassemble, out of commission, communication functions offline shut down. The only things I will be capable of doing is sucking on chocolate chips while soaking in a bubble bath.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley laughed. “Well, text me when you’re five minutes out. I’ll get it runnin’ so it’ll be ready when you get here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are a saint,” Peter praised. He spotted a familiar black car parked at the curb. “And that’s my cue.” He kissed his cheek. “Bye, sweetie. I’ll see you tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have fun!” Harley called.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll try!” Peter replied, before sliding into the passenger seat. He smiled a toothy smile and waved as they drove away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley sighed, lovesick, and started his walk to Columbia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His day dragged on in the way that most did, flying by when he was invested in his fundamentals of engineering lectures, looking out at the sea of bleary eyed students operating on more cups of coffee than hours of sleep, and lasting nerve-wracking, long hours during his mechanical engineering lab course while these very same caffeinated zombies experimented on laser doppler anemometry in immersed fluidic channels. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was finally out the door at five forty-six, stopping by the campus Panda Express for Beijing Beef on fried rice for supper, and taking a slow stroll home with his earbuds blasting James Taylor to block out the busy chatter of the city.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kicked off his shoes as he entered the apartment, shimmying off his suit jacket and doing a quick stretch up, his back popping and crackling in response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He groaned loudly and trudged to the bathroom, running the shower to a barely comfortable scalding hot, and took out his earbuds, blasting the music in the spacious tiled room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiled softly, whistling along to the song.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a quick shower, just freshening up after spending a day in his suffocating suit, especially in his lecture hall that tended to run warm in the transition between the chilly winter to the crisp springs. Though, he did take the time to use shampoo and conditioner just so his hair was extra soft for Peter to run his fingers through. It gave his tired hands something to keep distracted and fiddle with after a long day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After throwing on his ridiculously soft pajamas that Peter insisted Harley wear so he would be “comfy to cuddle,” he set up his computer, turning on the livestream from Peter’s science convention where he would soon be giving his speech as closing keynote speaker, and enjoyed his microwave reheated meal with a glass of semi-cheap, dry red blend he had to break out since he was out of his favorite cabernet sauvignon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face lit up as Peter was introduced, the man approaching the stand with a humble confidence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good evening. Today, we bring together some of the brightest minds of all generations. Today is a celebration of innovation. It is a celebration of unwavering tenacity and persistence to discover and make change. It is a celebration of those who have followed in the footsteps of their predecessors and carved paths for those to follow in their own. It is a celebration of the conglomeration of thoughts and ideas that we were once told would never make it anywhere. Because, I know that every single person in this room knows what it is like to be turned down. For their thesis to be mocked and their life’s work that they poured their heart and souls into be ridiculed by those who you wish the most to impress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, let me be the one to tell you that you are all brilliant. You are all creators and masterminds in your own and every right. Know that your strength and your stubborn perseverance has guided you to overcome your adversary. Know that your determination and love for your work shows. It really does. I see the way that you talk about your projects, and I can tell that you have truly exceeded every expectation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are phenomenal scientists. You are phenomenal people. You are going to do great things in this world and you’re going to…” Peter looked up at the rafters. “Everyone get down!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ducked behind the podium just as rapid fire gunshots rang out throughout the conference hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley froze, eyes glued to the screen as his breath caught in the big lump stuck in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Five men dropped from above Peter, shooting out the security surrounding him, one man holding him with his arm around Peter’s throat, two others pointing guns straight to his head, and the last two protecting those three.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If any of you even </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinks</span>
  </em>
  <span> of getting up or calling for help, we will not fucking hesitate shootin’ you,” the man choking Peter said, his grip tightening on his neck making him gag and choke for air. “Quite a speech you gave up there, Mr. Parker. However, Peter Parker here is a dirty, lying hypocrite!” he shouted in a jovial tone. “Because, you see here, he has built his legacy following in the footsteps of a death monger, though he likes to try and cover his tracks with shiny technology and good press.” He squeezes even tighter on Peter’s neck. “But we all know the truth, right? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Right?!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughed humorlessly. “We know that good samaritans like Peter Parker aren’t really the philanthropists they claim to be. Big businesses with the big bucks? They don’t care about the people. They certainly don’t give a shit about small scientists!” He narrowed his eyes at Peter whose face was going purple. “No.” He laughed again. “No, Stark Industries can’t see genius even if it was right in front of their faces.” He smiled. “So I guess we’ll just have to prove it.” In one swift movement, a gun was pressed to Peter’s temple and then suddenly he was gone, dissolved into a pile of ash.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A raw, guttural scream escaped Harley’s mouth, ripping through his throat until it was raw. He fell out of the bar stool, crumbling to the ground, his body trembling violently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air that entered his lungs was sharp and piercing, burning with every sharp intake that he gasped. His sobs were harsh and long and seemingly endless, even when the tears didn’t dare fall from his eyes. His head was pounding, the pressure in his temples growing unbearable, his jaw clenched so tight that his veins felt like they were going to burst.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time didn’t pass as he sat there, catatonic and numb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a pounding at the door, but it just blended with the deafening static in his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harley! It’s Cassie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head turned slowly to face the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you let me in? I just… we’re all just trying to… we know that you… can you just let me know you’re okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley pulled himself off the floor, his sore muscles grinding as he got up. He shuffled to the door, his grip barely strong enough to open the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cassie stood on the other side, clearly fresh out of a fight, eyes sad and empathetic. “Hey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doin’ here?” Harley croaked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We thought it’d be best if someone was with you right now,” she said softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley swallowed hard. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know I didn’t. But we care about you. And not just because of…” she trailed off. “I’m so sorry, Harley.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bobbed his head, biting his wobbly lip to hold back his tears. “Me too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you need to get some sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How can I sleep when he… when I… when he’s…” He choked out another sob.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cassie rubbed circles in his back. “I think you’re very tired right now, and you need to get some rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took a shaky breath and nodded in agreement. “Okay. I- okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she pulled him into his bedroom, he cried out, pained. “It still smells like him. I can still smell him.” He buried his face in his pillow, trying to hold onto the scent of his fruity shampoo and nighttime musk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As his bones settled onto the mattress, exhaustion overcame him, the world going blank as he held onto the remnants of Peter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The funeral was soon. Sooner than he could comprehend. He knew he answered questions, attended meetings and readings and everything in between, but it was all a blur. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a blur, sitting there as his closest friends gave teary speeches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a blur, watching the empty casket disappear under the six feet of dirt next to the rest of the Parker family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a blur, holding May Parker as she screamed and cried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a blur, watching as days turned to weeks, and he went nowhere at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morgan Stark took up the mantle of CEO of Stark Industries, Cassie was promoted head of Avengers, and life moved on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Life moved on without Peter Parker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Life moved on, but Harley Keener did not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley Keener trudged through the miasma of mental fog clouding his conscious mind. Harley Keener made two servings every night at supper and pulled out a blanket when he sat on the couch even if he wasn’t cold because</span>
  <em>
    <span> he </span>
  </em>
  <span>would’ve been cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley Keener didn’t cry. He wasn’t going to cry. But his head pounded from the pressure of tears threatening to spill, and his hands trembled until he couldn’t do anything but bite his palm, holding back the sobs that he couldn’t help rip through his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley Keener was constantly reminded of everything he lost. The people who mourned the man that he loved. The dogs on the street that yipped and sniffed his hands. The children with Spider-Man backpacks and big goofy grins that could almost match up to Peter’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley Keener was lost. He went to work, giving his lectures, overseeing his labs, but nothing filled him. Nothing ever would. Not when the best thing in his life was erased.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley Keener hurt. He hurt when he heard a song that he’d dance with Peter, hands shriveled with soapy dish water. He hurt when Valentine’s Day rolled around and he celebrated with a bottle of whiskey and scrapbooks that he didn’t appreciate enough before. He hurt when he saw Peter in everyone he saw, in everything he did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But what hurt more than the hurt were the moments he thought he was moving on. When he would forget just for a moment and then be ambushed with the overwhelming guilt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What hurt more was seeing that life moved on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he couldn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wouldn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a usual Friday evening. He nursed another whiskey on the rocks, gulping it down and savoring the burn on the way down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stared at the cabinets, not even bothering busying himself with mindless entertainment. He didn’t deserve that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a thump on the balcony.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley’s head snapped up. “Hello? Who’s there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His breath caught in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter, bruised and grimy, wearing his Iron Spider suit stood in the doorway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harley,” the hallucination Peter said, eyes watery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, darlin’,” Harley said, unmoving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank God you’re okay,” he ran up to him, but Harley flinched away. “What’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just… just let me look at you, alright? Let me just… I gotta… just so I’ll remember. So my last memory won’t be…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter frowned. “What are you…” He paused. “No. No, Harley. I’m real. I’m here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you’re not,” Harley stated. “No you’re not, no you’re not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harley, yes I…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>NO YOU’RE NOT!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he snapped, voice rough and filled with rage that Peter cowered from. “You’re not real, so stop telling me you’re real, because you’re… he’s… he’s gone. He’s gone, and you’re a cruel twisted knife in my heart reminding me that I’ll never have him back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tears ran down its face, making Harley just feel even more of a rush of guilt. “Please… it’s… it’s been so long, and I thought you’d… I… what happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He died. That’s what happened. And you… you’re… you’re just my punishment. For what, I don’t know. My punishment for my selfishness? My hubris? My ignorance? I don’t know. Maybe I just never was enough for him, and this is… this is just one last reminder that even gone, I’ll never… because even gone I’m making you fucking cry, </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop fucking crying!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” He ran his fingers through his already disheveled hair. “I don’t want my last fucking memory of my husband to be… because the last one is bad enough. I don’t want this one. So just fucking go! Get out of my head!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not in your head,” it said meekly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes you are! Of course you are! Because he’s gone and you’re not real.” He paced, murmuring, “not real, not real, not real.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harley,” it pleaded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley froze, blank gaze meeting its frightened eyes. “Did you know that people bring you food when your husband dies? Because I do. I got a lot of food,” he chuckled humorlessly, “not that I could keep any of it down.” He looked up at the thing masked as Peter who stared at him, perplexed and speechless. “It was always the same type of food. The heavy kind of food. Starchy and filling and warm. Casseroles, pastas, </span>
  <em>
    <span>lots </span>
  </em>
  <span>of pastas, actually. Who knows if they’re good. They’re just sittin’ in the fridge, getting stale.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stepped forward, dry eyes empty. “But you wouldn’t know what it’s like when your husband dies because it’s never happened to you. You didn’t have to sit through your husband’s funeral in a suit that you can never wear again. You didn’t have to watch them lower down an empty casket of the man whose last conversation with you was about fucking phone bills and bubble baths and not a single ‘I love you.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know how it feels to know that you never got to say goodbye. That you’ll </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>get to. That you’ll never get a future that you’ve been meticulously planning for years. You don’t know what it’s like going to bed in your bed and still smelling him on the pillows and then every night the scent of him disappearing little by little until you have to take out a shirt from his hamper just so you can still remember what your dead husband smells like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know what that’s like because you died! You… </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> died! And you’re not real, so just… just…” Harley crumpled, knees buckling beneath him as he fell into a heap on the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As sobs wracked his shaking body, he felt a warm hand on his cheek, and froze, eyes clenching shut. No. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please. Please, look at me,” it whispered. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Harley. Look at me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Harley.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Because if I do, then that means…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here, sweetie. I’m here,” it…</span>
  <em>
    <span> he</span>
  </em>
  <span> murmured.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley’s wet gaze met his, locking in his soft dark browns. “Peter?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nodded, chuckling softly and disbelieving. “I didn’t think I was ever going to see you again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peter,” Harley repeated, in shock. “Peter, you’re… but you’re… </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Another time, okay, love? Just breathe. Okay? Breathe with me.” Peter took a long, shaky breath, hugging him from behind so he could feel his breaths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley tried to follow along, but could only focus on the feeling of his arms around him, the scent that was undeniably Peter overwhelming his senses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you. I love you. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just breathe,” Peter said again, holding him tighter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley’s head fell back, leaning on Peter’s shoulder. “I missed you so much. I love you. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I missed you too,” Peter said. “Let’s go to bed, alright? We can talk about this in the morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley, body suddenly exhausted, though that wasn’t uncommon these days, just nodded thoughtlessly. “Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley’s heart skipped, the words forever ingraining into his mind, words that he will never take for granted. “I love you too. I love you so much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter guided him to the bed and laid him down, kissing him softly on the forehead. “Get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Harley did stir awake and the bed beside him was cold and vacant, the thought that the night before was just a feverish dream settled, and his heart dropped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>However, when he heard the clink and clatter of the dishes in the kitchen, he shot up. “Who’s there?” He cautiously tiptoed out of his bedroom, and went rigid as he saw Peter, ruffled from sleep in one of his oversized MIT sweatshirts and his </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hello Kitty </span>
  </em>
  <span>pajama pants, mismatching fuzzy socks on his feet as he slid around the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned around. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peter,” Harley said, mouth dry. “You’re…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His smile faded. “Yeah. I’m still here. Last night was real. I’m really here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley rushed to him, pulling him into a tight embrace, taking a long breath, noticing the lingering scent of his shampoo on his still damp hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was gonna make you some breakfast, but I guess not cooking for three months makes you a little rusty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was always rusty,” Harley said, the response automatic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter snorted. “Yeah. I suppose you’re right.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where were you?” Harley blurted out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter sighed. “Getting right to the point, huh?” He nodded. “I would too if I were you.” He let out a shaky breath. “Googled myself and read my own obituary. That was weird.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peter,” Harley said, impatient and almost pleading.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw the footage,” Peter continued, getting more frantic. “And I saw myself turn to dust. It looked just like it. Getting turned to dust like I did on Titan. But it wasn’t… I wasn’t… so I can’t imagine what you must’ve thought. How you must’ve felt. Because I… it looked like he…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peter, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think he thinks it disintegrated me. Because that’s what it looks like, right? But he didn’t. That dust? That dust was the sand from Aweitpwei. It’s a planet six galaxies away from ours. And I showed up there, luckily able to breathe their air for the few moments before my suit engaged and gave me my own. It was an abandoned wasteland, or at least, junkyard. I was surrounded by a lot of alien junk, but also, a bunch of Earthly things. Mugs and apples and a full oak tree, which, wow, that was not doing well on Aweitpweian air. But, that’s not the point. The point was, I was alive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right…” Harley said, not fully following.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did a lot of traveling. Ate a lot of alien food. Had to communicate as best I could with my universal phrases that every Avenger was required to learn. Ended up selling the mugs for a spaceship because apparently Midgardian ceramics are worth a spaceship’s worth of currency there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, you just… traveled on this spaceship until you got to Earth?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter chuckled dryly. “Oh, no. It wasn’t that easy. I crash landed on a few planets, bartering the stuff I stored from the Aweitpweian junkyard until I ran into the Guardians. Then they took me on </span>
  <em>
    <span>their</span>
  </em>
  <span> ship, promising me a ride home as long as I helped them track down some space terrorist. Really rude guy. Bright orange too.” He shook his head. “So, I did that for a couple weeks, and only </span>
  <em>
    <span>then</span>
  </em>
  <span> did we make the trip home which was another month. And… yeah. Now I’m here. And, uh, yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you were dead,” Harley said blankly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. And I… I’m so sorry that all of this has happened to you, but I… I’m not goin’ anywhere, alright? I’m here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley placed a quavering hand to Peter’s cheek, running his thumb on his cheekbone. He leaned in softly, meeting his lips tentatively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter gasped against his lip, placing a hand on his neck and pulling him closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The moved, passionate and unable to wait a minute longer, salty tears running down their faces. They barely got a moment to breathe, their only thoughts consumed of the feeling of their hands exploring the other’s body, trying to make sure that they were really there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you. I love you so much,” Harley said against his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you too,” Peter said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please don’t leave me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not gonna.” He kissed him once more, unmoving and firm. “You aren’t gettin’ rid of me that easily.” He pulled away, resting his forehead on his. “So, did you finally get that white bread you wanted?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what? I did. And I think it’d go perfectly with some of your rubbery eggs.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you want to chat, my Tumblr is <a href="https://official-impravidus.tumblr.com/">official-impravidus</a></p><p>If you want to join a Parkner Discord, click <a href="https://discord.gg/vztSVpg">here!</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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